All this information we obtained while slowly gliding by the Start. The Start light, from its height and brilliancy, can be seen much further off than the Eddystone light, which we sighted just before morning. A head wind springing up, and the tide being against us, we ran back past Bolt Head into Salcombe Range. The sun had not risen as we entered the harbour. The scenery of the entrance is wild and romantic. High and rugged rocks appeared above our mast-head. We brought-up on the eastern side of the harbour. As soon as the anchor was down we piped to breakfast.
Just beneath Bolt Head we observed the ruins of an old castle, once a stronghold of importance, which held out bravely for the Royalists under the governor, Sir Edward Fortescue. For four months he and his gallant followers withstood the numberless cannon-shot poured in from the heights above, and at length only yielded on honourable terms to the leader of the Parliamentary forces, who allowed them to walk out with their arms and colours flying.
Uncle Tom and Jack came on board to breakfast, and we spent a jolly morning, in spite of the pouring rain. I could never fancy taking a cruise alone in a yacht, especially without a crew, as two or three gentlemen have done; but nothing is more pleasant than sailing in company with another yacht, with a merry party on board each vessel, and exchanging visits, sometimes “mealing”—as Uncle Tom called it—on board the one, sometimes on board the other, as we always did when in harbour. At sea this, of course, could not be done, except in calm weather. Although Salcombe Range is rugged and wild in the extreme at its mouth, there are some beautiful country houses higher up the harbour; one belongs to the Earl of Devon, and another to Lord Kinsale. So genial is the climate, that myrtles, magnolias, oleanders, and aloes grow in profusion, and fill the air with their fragrance. Vines and all sorts of fruit-trees also flourish—the apple-tree especially yielding a rich crop. We agreed that for a winter residence there could not be a more delightful spot in England.
The following evening, the weather clearing, we made sail, the Dolphin leading. As we stood out, we passed a fine large schooner—a fruit vessel, I believe—which had put in here. Paul Truck hailed her as we passed slowly by, and he found that he knew her master, who said that she had put in to land her owner and his family, and that she was bound up the Straits of Gibraltar. The very next night she was driven on shore near the Lizard—either on the Stags or some other rocks—and was dashed to pieces, all hands perishing.
The wind, though light, was sufficiently to the southward to enable us to stand for Plymouth; but we kept close-hauled, that we might have a good offing, should the wind shift to the westward, when it would be in our teeth. Darkness was creeping over the face of the water. The Dolphin was about two cables length ahead of us. We had just gone down to tea, and Oliver was pouring out a cup for papa, when we were startled by a loud shout uttered by Truck:
“A man overboard from the Dolphin!”
Oliver, in his agitation, let go the teapot, which was capsized. We all rushed on deck, papa leading, and Oliver butting me with his head behind.
“Where is he?” asked papa, running forward to look out. “Keep her as she goes,” he shouted.
The Dolphin was in stays, coming about, an operation she took some time to perform. It was evident we should be up to the spot where the man—whoever he was—had fallen into the water before she could reach it. We peered through the gloom, but could perceive nothing amid the leaden seas flecked over with snowy foam.
“Stand by to lower the boat; trice up the main tack!” cried papa.